With Golden Hearts
by soufflewhouffle
Summary: "The rope burns his wrists as he twists them in fury, the searing sensation ignored even as he feels hot liquid trickle down his fingertips. Moriarty notices this; watches as the blood drips to the floor. 'You'd bleed for her.' He says, wondrously. Sherlock meets his gaze with narrowed eyes. 'I'd die for her.'" Sherlolly, slow build, M to be safe. On tumblr at myeleven :)
1. Chapter 1

It's a cold, windy day when Molly Hooper arrives at the lab in Barts hospital, the clock on the wall reading quarter past ten. She's a little late, having spent twenty minutes stuck behind a cyclist and having to drive a lot slower than usual so her mousey hair is ruffled from where she's run her hand through it in frustration and she pulls it up into a ponytail, pinning up the short bits that don't quite reach the hairband. Practicality over style; a motto she's kept ever since she started working here.

Working in a morgue hardly requires the latest trends and in a way, she's glad. She doesn't think she could ever pull off anything she sees the beautiful models wearing on TV.

She's just reaching for a pair of gloves when the door swings open; the head of morgue, Roger Dummit, scuttles in and she's surprised - he rarely ever comes down. He usually considers himself above the rest of the morgue workers; an arrogant sod she wishes she doesn't have to work for. As she looks closer she notices his left eye twitching visibly, a vein throbbing on the side of his head. Just as she wonders what might have got him so wound up, a second person enters the room.

At first, all she sees is curly black hair and a long, sweeping black coat; the tall man strides in like a whirlwind and leaves her eyes struggling to focus on the blur of movement.

When he stops, he's facing away from her and she frowns in frustration, wanting to see his face. There seems to be an awkward silence between the two men for a moment before finally, someone speaks.

'Ah, thank you.' The voice is deep and rich and definitely not Dummit's. 'You can leave, now.'

Dummit leaves the room quietly, and the stranger turns around. He starts to walk towards her, and she is lost for words.

Ice blue eyes are framed with what she thinks are the sharpest cheekbones she's ever seen; pale skin stretched over knife edges, as if some sculptor has spent hours chiselling the angles into his bones.

Pink lips with a defined cupid's bow part as he opens his mouth to speak and she thinks she's never seen anyone so beautiful.

'Molly? Molly Hooper? I've been told you're the one to speak to if I need a dead body.'

She doesn't register his words, for a moment, still captivated by his features.

Her eyes skim over his nose down to his chin and she wonders if it just looks like she's staring at his lips-

'Molly...Hooper?'

His voice, more urgent this time, startles out of her reverie and she blushes instantly, heat flooding her face and colouring her cheeks pink. She kicks herself internally, mortification filling her chest with a burning sensation.

'Yes! Yes, err, yes, that's me.' She says, as brightly as possible.

'I need a body.'

She's distracted from her embarrassment at his request; surprised, she takes a step back and tries not to feel intimidated when he matches her, taking a slightly longer stride forward.

'You what?'

'I need a body.'

He repeats the statement in a way that makes her feel incredibly stupid.

'Yes, I heard.' She mumbles. 'What do you need one for?'

He frowns at her. 'Correct me if I'm wrong, but I do believe that's none of your business.'

She frowns back, indignation flaring up. 'In actual fact, I believe it _is_. I can't just go around handing _dead bodies_ to anyone who asks for one.'

He rolls his eyes and shoots a tired look up at the ceiling and she hates the way he's so patronising without even saying anything. He slips a large hand into an inside pocket of his coat and produces a Manila envelope. With a mounting sense of dread, she resists the urge to facepalm and takes the envelope warily. She puts a hand inside and draws out a series of official-looking documents, all detailing 'confidential' and 'access to all resources' and signed by 'Greg Lestrade.'

She closes her eyes for a split second, resisting the urge to groan. She hands the papers back (spitefully neglecting to put them back in the envelope) and mutters a string of unintelligible words before leading him through a door and down a flight of stairs.

She pushes open a cold glass door and then there are the bodies, all laid out on clean steel tables, some still wrapped in body bags and others only covered with a thin cotton blanket.

She gestures towards them. 'Here you are.' She says. '...Bodies.'

He merely nods and steps up to examine each one before coming to stop at the body of a middle-aged man. 'This one will do nicely.' He says. He looks up at her and his piercing blue eyes meet her brown ones. She resists the urge to look away. 'Now,' He says, 'I'll be needing my riding crop.'

He looks at her expectantly.

'You...what?' She resigns herself to embarrassment as she repeats her earlier words, confusion pulling her eyebrows together in a light frown.

'I left my riding crop downstairs. Fetch it.'

His rudeness leaves Molly feeling indignant. Good looking, bur definitely not charming.

'No, I won't-' She starts. 'I'm not your sla-'

And then his gaze is turned on her again and this time there is something in his eyes that is hot and passionate and she thinks she might need one of the tables for support, her legs feeling a little weak. Maybe it would be a good idea to get out of there, after all.

'Okay.' She squeaks, and tries desperately to regain her composure as she leaves the room. As the door swings shut behind her, she almost completely sure she hears him mutter,

'The smoulder works – make a note.'

She's not sure who on earth he could be talking to in a room full of lifeless bodies and she's slightly insulted as she considers the meaning of what he said but she shakes her head and carries on walking.

As she walks down the stairs she realises that he never mentioned where downstairs he left his riding crop (she wonders what on earth he could want with that, anyway) and she hopes it's just somewhere around reception or she'll have to go trooping around everywhere.

She tries not to think about his so-called-"smoulder" (although she knows that's exactly what it is) and the way it made her knees turn to jelly like she was some love-struck teen.

But then again, he must have the same effect on everyone, she supposes. With looks like _that _and a personality just as striking – albeit in a much less positive way – he'd leave an impact everywhere he goes. She feels as if all he needs now is a soundtrack when he enters rooms.

She finally finds the riding crop – leaning against a wheelie bin outside the staff room, god only knows why – and starts to make her way back to the man. She realises then that she doesn't even know his name; making a mental note to ask for it, she hurries up a flight of stairs.

It's as she's walking past the woman's bathroom that the first treacherous thought creeps into her head; she's brought her make-up bag with her, today, as she's going out straight after work, and her hand twitches towards it suggestively as her eyes swivel towards the toilets. Despite his utter rudeness, she wants badly to impress the stranger and she sighs as she gives in and walks into the toilets, riding crop in one hand and make-up bag in the other.

She stares into the mirror as she opens the bag and almost stops. She wonders what good make-up will do, anyway – her face is plain and there's no amount of make-up that could make her a beauty, especially not a beauty to live up to the standards of that man.

Squeezing her eyes shut momentarily to repress the self-loathing thoughts, she shakes her head and only puts on the sheerest coat of lipgloss before leaving the toilets.

She feels ridiculous for wanting to impress someone she's just met but she can't help the way her mind races and her pulse speeds up a little as she thinks of the tall, beautiful man. There is something so wildly, ruggedly, _animalistically_ attractive beneath the sharp suit and cool composure he wants to get to know him a little more and she takes a deep breath when she reaches the door she knows he's waiting behind.

She pushes it open and walks in; he has his back to her, perfectly still save his index finger tapping the tabletop his hand rests on.

Molly clears her throat nervously. 'I...found your riding crop.'

He spins around instantly, suddenly full of energy.

'Aha! Thank you.'

Despite the grateful words he barely looks at her as he takes the crop and she feels snubbed. About to open her mouth to say something, she's cut off and steps back in surprise as he brandishes the crop and starts hitting the woman's body with it.

'Excuse me-' she tries, and is cut off by a resounding _thwack_ of leather hitting flesh.

'Sorry, but-'

_Thwack!_

'Listen-'

_Thwack!_

A particularly violent hit actually tears open skin and Molly stares at the wound in horror; feeling slightly nauseated at the sight, she strides over and grabs his arm as he starts to bring it down for another hit. Almost expecting to see him wild-eyed and out of control, she's slightly surprised when he looks down at her with a calm and collected expression. He frowns in annoyance.

'What are you doing?' He asks.

'What are _you_ doing?' She retorts hotly. 'This is absolutely horrible!'

'She's dead.'

'Well, obviously. But what you're doing...it's _degrading_. And disrespectful.'

He snorts. 'It is also what's going to prevent an innocent man from going to prison for the rest of his life, so _if_ you don't mind-'

_Thwack!_

Molly leaves the room with a headache.

She's sitting in the lab next door, peering into a microscope, when the noises stop. She sighs in relief as the door swings open and the man strides out. She does a double take as she notices a spatter of blood across his cheek and he throws himself down onto a stool, somehow managing not to fall off with the over-enthusiastic movement.

'There's – blood.' She says, gesturing hesitantly towards the affected area.

'Ah, yes. Must have been the hit to the hip. A surprising amount of blood was collected within that area.'

Molly swallows her disgust, momentarily uncertain whether or not to continue.

'You're wearing lip gloss.'

The statement takes her by surprise before a rush of self-consciousness washes over her.

'Excuse me?'

'Lipgloss. You're wearing it, and you weren't before. Why?'

Her mind scrambles for a response. 'I...I just – refreshed it.'

'Hm.'

She takes a moment to collect her thoughts.

'Anyway,' She begins.

'No, I'm not going to tell you what the case was about.'

'Sorry?'

'The case? The reason I was hitting a woman with a riding crop? I'm assuming that's what you want to know. Most people do.'

'Actually,' She says, swallowing nervously, 'you're wrong.'

He seems to take great offence to that, looking up sharply. 'I'm sorry?'

She bites her lip. 'I said, actually, you're wrong – I wanted to ask-'

'I am never _wrong_. Sometimes, I am misinformed and _led _to the wrong conclusion, but I assure you that my deductions are all _perfectly sound_.' He says this with vehemence, half standing now.

She takes a step back, warily. 'No, no, of course-'

He sits back down-

'I just wanted to ask if, you know, you'd, maybewanttogetcoffee?' The last part is a hurried rush of words as she chokes out the sentence.

A flare of hope sparks up in her chest as he smiles brilliantly.

'Yes! Absolutely. Black, two sugars, thank you. I'll be downstairs.'

And then he's gone; a black coat billowing out behind him as he sweeps out of the room.

Molly stands, shell-shocked, alone in the lab. Her voice is nothing but a squeak.

'Okay.'


	2. Chapter 2

Despite the fact that she knows she shouldn't have listened to the man, Molly finds herself downstairs with a cup of coffee, black, two sugars, clenched tightly in her fist and her heart in her mouth. Cheeks still stinging from the comment about her lipgloss, she'd wiped it off as soon as soon as the opportunity had presented itself, using the steel surface of the kettle as a mirror to make sure she didn't smear it everywhere. Once that had been done, she'd made the coffee and was now carrying it down to the basement where all the files were kept – where the man had said he would be. She didn't know why she was going to see him again, really – he humiliated her and angered her in turns and she should really just have ignored his request (demand?) for coffee and left him to it. But the attraction was still there and she put down the earlier moments to pure misunderstanding. (Although she knew this was just a poor attempt at making herself feel better.)

Taking a deep breath for what feels like the hundredth time that day, Molly pushes open the doors and walks inside, feet scuffing across the floorboards.

'Er..Hi.' She stutters as she spots him, sat at a desk, flicking through papers. 'I've brought your coffee.'

He looks completely unsurprised to see her, as if he knew she would listen to him before he even made the request.

_Am I really that obvious?_ She wonders.

'Thank you.' He rumbles, in his deep voice, and she walks over and sets down the mug before she can spill it all over herself.

Overcome by a sudden rush of boldness, she asks, 'What's your name?' She tries for a smile. 'I realised I didn't ask before.'

'Sherlock. Sherlock Holmes.'

He looks up and focuses on her face for a split second before dropping his gaze.

'You've changed your lipgloss again.' He mutters conversationally. 'Taken it off, in fact.'

Molly gapes at him; blood rushes to her cheeks as she self-consciously brings a hand up to cover her mouth.

'It wasn't working for me.' She mutters, looking away.

'Really? I thought it was a big improvement.' He waves his hands around in vague gestures. 'Your mouth looks too...small, now.

Stung, Molly steps back, frowning. She debates whether or not to reply with a sharp retort but she knows she'll most likely just embarrass herself again and settles for changing the subject.

'Look, about earlier -'

'Yes?'

'When I asked you if you wanted coffee...I didn't mean, you know, fetch you coffee. I meant-'

'I know what you meant.'

She's taken aback.

'Sorry?'

'I know what you meant.'

'How could you possibly know that?'

'The same way as I instantly noticed that you'd changed your lipgloss-'

'That was rather creepy, if you ask me-' She's not sure why she feels so defensive but she's hurt at the way he treated her like a servant despite knowing her intentions. (no way to put it down as a misunderstanding, now.)

'What?'

'Creepy.'

'What do you mean, creepy?'

'Well, you were clearly staring at my mouth for a _very_ long time if you were paying enough attention to actually notice the tiniest differences in the amount of makeup on my lips.' As she says it, Molly hears a slightly cocky tone to her voice that she's never heard before and doesn't really like.

Sherlock's eyes flash and he leans forwards. 'Oh, Molly. It took me only half a second to register the changes, and less than that to work out why. I've far better things to look at than _you_. No, I deduced that you wanted to go for coffee with me in the same way that I've deduced that you live alone, with a cat, haven't had a boyfriend for a while – we can see why quite clearly – and that you have a pathetic crush on me.' He spits the words spitefully, and Molly can feel each one sinking into her skin like a blow. She's struggling to hold back tears of utter humiliation when he tells her to 'get out, and take your perfectly cringe-worthy obsession with you.'

She turns and leaves the room, fast, not stopping until she's back up the stairs and sitting behind her microscope. Dropping her head onto her hands, she holds back tears and bites her lip, hard. She's not angry, not yet; fighting back the waves of embarrassment, she groans into her palms. Sherlock's words echo around her head.

_I've far better things to look at than you._

_Haven't had a boyfriend for a while – we can see why quite clearly._

She's never been particularly happy with the way she looks but she's never let it affect her too much. Now, however, she feels a crippling sense of self-consciousness and shame in her appearance setting in. Having it pointed out by someone so flawlessly beautiful doesn't help, either. She sighs, trying to push away the rising tide of melancholy, pulling a tray of slides towards her. She slips them under the microscope one by one, trying to distract herself from thinking about it.

It's only later that day, when she returns home, that she allows her mind to wander over the events of the day. Standing in front of the bathroom mirror, she wonders if she really is that plain. She's never thought of herself as ugly; but she's never thought of herself as particularly pretty, either. She shakes her head and turns away from her reflection, not wanting to be bogged down by her own low self-esteem. It's when she goes to bed that she really feels angry; angry at the way he treated her like a slave and the way he insulted her when she hadn't done anything wrong. Resolving to forget about arrogant man, she turns out her lamp and pulls the covers up to her chin.

She feels lonely in her single bed for the first time in a while. She's never realised quite how long it's been empty for, before.

Sherlock arrives back in the apartment he shares with John in a strange mood. He's not sure why he reacted so strongly to Molly; why he lashed out so viciously. Thinking about it, he wonders if it was the way she sounded so assured of her own intelligence when she'd said he'd "obviously" been staring at her lips. He'd been insulted by the tone of her voice which, to him, seemed to suggest a higher mental prowess than him.

Sherlock doesn't have much to be proud of; that's the problem. He's never done anything of note besides his deductions. He isn't special in any other way – _no, _he concludes, _my intelligence is all that makes me worthy of attention._ To have it challenged, intentionally or not, makes him feel...insecure? With a shudder, he pushes the thought away instantly, recoiling with disgust. No. _Sherlock Holmes does not feel __**insecure**__._ He knows there might be more than one reason, too; although his brain is capable of much higher functions than almost anyone, there are some memories that are hard to drag out. He remembers Mycroft's dig at the palace; Sherlock had told him, indignantly, '_I'm not afraid of sex._' He remembered Mycroft's soft reply, accompanied with the trademark government sneer; '_How would you know?_'

Although he doesn't want to admit it, Sherlock knows that _maybe_ that's why he reacted so strongly to Molly. It's true; he has little, close to no, experience with sexual _or _emotional relationships. The way Molly told him he must have been staring at her lips; the sexual intent assumed to be behind that gesture threw him off balance and he'd had no idea how to react. Instead, he'd lashed out in terror of the unknown. He often finds it funny how although he can know so much about one person just from looking at their shoes or their hair, he always fails to understand matters of the heart or anything resembling relationships. The only person he lets himself care about is John, and to a slightly smaller extent, Mrs Hudson and Greg Lestrade. He's not entirely sure how that last person made it onto the list; maybe it's the way he's always shown Sherlock respect, and they way he treats him like a friend rather than a freak. As much as Sherlock likes to boast about his capabilities, and although he would never admit it, sometimes he needs someone to insult him good-heartedly and make him feel _normal. _

His thoughts make him feel unsettled; it's been a long time since he's given any real, deep thought to the matter of friendships, and, more specifically, his own. He doesn't like to over-analyse the way he cares for some people; he knows it will only make him turn in on himself and begin an inner conflict he wishes to avoid. A war with himself can never be won and he prefers his mind (his heart?) _not_ to be a raging battlefield, thank you very much.

It's as he's trying to banish these thoughts when he realises he's made a mistakewith Molly, and he'd be dammed if he said he often did such a thing.

She's useful to him; quite indispensable, in fact. Being on bad terms with her will only cause problems to his work – he needs her to be pliant and obedient. He won't deny that he often sees people as objects, because he does, especially so with Molly; she's a tool to him and as much as he wishes he won't have to put up with her annoying infatuation he knows she's a useful component in his cases. He refuses to feel guilty. He can imagine exactly what John would say; something about him being a heartless bastard. He'd probably go and tell Molly and ruin, it, too; better not to tell him about his manipulations at all. Returning his thoughts to Molly, he thinks about getting her fired and having a replacement brought in; but he thinks the effort it would take to analyse their mindset and adjust his approach appropriately to build up a whole new relationship would be more effort than it's worth. No, he'll just have to arrive at the hospital (he'll find an excuse; he always does.) and try to get back on her good side. Not that it will be hard; after only spending a matter of hours with her, he knows he can play her like a fiddle. She's a finely-tuned instrument in his hands, playing each note as he wills it, hands on the bow like a puppeteer's on the strings. He's never felt guilty about such manipulation, as long as the cause is clean. And really, what better cause could you have than to help solve murders? In theory, what he's doing is _good_. A typical for-the-greater-good situation you'd see in a novel or a film. In reality, the lines are more blurred. He knows that most people would count it as being the wrong choice. Sherlock counts it as the necessary one.

He doesn't realise how long he's been lost in thought (very slack of him) until John's voice breaks into his reverie. He must have returned to the flat at some point without Sherlock noticing. (Doubly slack.)

'What's wrong?' John's voice is full of a concern that suddenly fills Sherlock with a feeling he can't quite place. It feels like something a little between revulsion and fear. (He's not sure why he's reacting in this way.) He can almost _see_ the cord connecting them; the intricately woven braid of care and camaraderie. He can see the shining thread of platonic _love_ stretching from John's half towards his; halfway across, the thread is frayed and broken. Sherlock knows that all John is waiting for is for him to return the care John shows to him and although he tries, there's a subtle fear in letting go and letting himself care so strongly about someone. As long as he can deny it, he thinks, he'll be okay. He knows all too well that anybody you care about can be ripped away without a moment's notice. He's lost in thought again, until John's voice breaks through the fog of his thoughts once more.

'Sherlock. What's the matter?'

'Nothing.'


	3. Chapter 3

**I'm glad people are liking this so far! (Yes, I stole Magnussen's t-shirt line – it just seemed to fit! Sorry.) Also I used his dialogue with John (and the part from a study in pink) because I needed to sort introduce this (super-intelligent) aspect of his character – I'm sorry! I'll probably use more deductions from the show in the future as I'm dreadful myself but I don't think I'll be using any more of his dialogue with other characters for his interactions with Molly any more. Anyway, I hope you enjoy it. :) **

Molly's in the morgue the next day, humming to herself as she examines a body. Only having been dead for a few hours, the body's still new. It still hasn't been undressed; only moved from the scene. She frowns as she presses her fingers against the bruises on the woman's neck.

She hears someone coming up the stairs; not bothering to turn around, as the door creaks open she waits to her Dummit's nasal voice ordering her to start filing the identification sheets.

Then the person speaks, in a wonderfully enchanting voice, deep and compelling, and it's definitely not Dummit.

_Sherlock._

She turns wearily, hands clenching the table they rest on. She instantly feels embarrassed, cheeks stinging as she remembers his comment from the day before. She feels angry, too, but she can't bear to look him in the eyes and looks down at the ground as he clasps his hands in front of him.

'Molly,' He begins, and she wishes her name didn't sound so sinfully beautiful in that low baritone.

'About yesterday...I just wanted to say I'm sorry.'

Her head snaps up in surprise. Somehow, Sherlock Holmes doesn't strike her as someone who often apologises.

'You what?'

He smirks. 'You ought to get that on a t-shirt.' Then his smirk changes to a soft, heart-melting smile. 'Anyway. I said, I'm sorry.'

Molly meets his gaze at last; his irises are a smooth grey and she swears they were blue before.

'I apologise for all of the things I said to you yesterday; they were uncalled for. I was in a bad mood and I let myself take it out on you. Please, forgive me.' His gaze holds hers for a moment longer. 'And, I do think you're pretty.'

The last bit is almost muttered and he ducks his head as he says it as if embarrassed to admit it and she blushes, cheeks flushing pink. She wants to be cool and dignified and haughty and she thinks she should still be angry, but his apology has thrown her and she can't help but forgive him. She relishes the thrill of being the one with the power for once before relenting, taking pity on his beseeching expression.

'Okay.' She tells him.

He looks up at her again. 'Okay?'

'Yes.' She smiles. 'You're forgiven.'

And then he's standing tall and straight, cool, collected Mr. Holmes once more, as he strides over and stands beside her, looking down at the body. He looks it up and down briefly, his eyes skimming over it in a second. He picks up the wrist, turns it over. Feels the underside of her neck. The underside of her coat collar. He pulls out his phone and Molly thinks she sees the weather forecast appear on his screen. She watches curiously.

When he finishes examining the body, she catches his gaze. 'What was that?'

'Just getting a bit of back story.'

She raises an eyebrow. 'What kind of back story could you possibly get from a woman's corpse?'

'You'd be surprised.'

'Surprise me.'

He looks back at her briefly before talking.

'She's got a job in the media. Takes a lot of pride in her appearance. She's from Cardiff; only in London for one night, and she's a serial adulterer.'

Molly stares at him, wide eyed, before bursting out laughing.

'You're terrible.' She chuckles. He looks at her, unblinking.

'I'm right.'

'You're being serious? You're telling me that you can get all that from 5 minutes in front of a corpse?'

'Easily.'

'Explain.'

He rises to the challenge.

'Job in the media was a little risky, but I'm going by her clothes and her ink-stained hands. Pride in her appearance – that's obvious, even a fool would get that. Every inch of her is colour-coordinated.

She's from Cardiff; that's obvious too, of course. The next thing-'

'That's...not obvious at all.'

'What?'

'Cardiff? How on Earth could you possibly know that?'

He gives her a look of incredulity before continuing.

'Her coat's wet. So's her hair. But, so is the underside of her coat collar, which means she must have turned it up against the wind. She's got an umbrella in her pocket but it's dry and unused. Clearly the wind was too strong for her to use it. Notice I said wet, not damp; she's been somewhere rainy recently. Very recently. So, where has there been rain and strong winds within that sort of time? Cardiff.'

Molly can't help but be completely and utterly in awe.

'That...was incredible.' _Incredibly hot._

He raises an eyebrow. 'Really?'

'Obviously.' She pauses. 'Carry on.'

'She's only in London for one night; you can tell by the splash marks on her leg. You only get those from pulling a suitcase behind you; judging by the spread, a small suitcase. Just big enough to carry everything she needs for one night.

As for her being a serial adulterer, that you can tell from her jewellery. She's got a lot on; earrings, bracelets, rings. All shiny and polished, except from her wedding ring. That's dirty and scratched, not taken care of at all – tells you the state of her marriage. However, it's shiny on the inside; the only polishing it gets is when she pulls it off her finger – judging by the shine, she does that a lot. Therefore, she must take it off for something, or rather, someone, to hide her marriage. Not just one person, though; she'd never be able to keep up the fiction of being single for that long. More than one person then. Several.' He looks up and meets Molly's eyes. 'A serial adulterer.'

She's lost for words as he watched her expectantly.

'Do you really not see that?' He asks incredulously, and then groans when she shakes her head.

'You're so _stupid_.' He says, a look of disbelief on his face.

She steps back, stung, and then he holds out a hand, shaking his head.

'No, no, don't take it like that – practically everyone is, compared to me.'

His skewed apology makes Molly laugh, in the way he genuinely believes it's making her feel better and his casual arrogance.

'You're so sure of yourself, aren't you, Sherlock?' She smiles.

'I am.'

'So, do you do this for a living? You're a detective?' She asks, curious.

'Yes. I mostly work for the police.'

She frowns. 'But the police don't go to private detectives. Which means...?'

'I'm a consulting detective; the only one in the world. I invented the job.'

'And what exactly does that mean?'

'It means that when the police are out of their depth, which is always, they come to me.'

Molly raises an eyebrow. 'Impressive.'

He ignores the remark, looking back down at the body.

'I need to start filing this stuff,' Molly says, gesturing towards a stack of paperwork on her desk. 'so I really ought to leave you.' She looks him over, properly, taking in his smart dress and scruffy hair.

'I'm guessing you got out of bed in a hurry?' She asks. She's not sure but she feels like she's trying to impress him. 'I can tell by your hair.' She almost throws a wink onto the end but thankfully stops herself in time.

He looks down at her, a slight frown on his face.

'No.'

'Ah.' She feels herself blushing again, heat rising in her cheeks. _Just never open you mouth again, Molly._ 'Sorry, that was incredibly stupid.'

He smiles. 'We all make mistakes.'

She snorts. 'Somehow, I don't think you do.' She says.

He raises an eyebrow. 'I don't know about that.' He tells her. 'I made a mistake yesterday. Quite a large one, actually.'

'Really? What was that?' She snorts.

'I made a mistake in driving you away.'

Molly's breath catches in her throat; she's sure her heartbeat has tripled in a second.

'What do you mean?'

'What I mean is, yesterday, I was rude and I hurt you. It was a careless mistake. I do realise I've already said this, but I apologise. I enjoy your company far too much to want you to stay away from me.'

He adds a charming smile but she's lost already, nodding.

'Of course.' She says. 'Don't worry about it at all.'

'Thank you.'

Sherlock watches Molly as she sits down to do her paperwork; satisfied that his apology seems to have been convincing enough, he tucks his hands into his pockets, feeling a sense of satisfaction. He can imagine what John would say to him if he knew what was going on. _'Arrogant bastard'_, probably.

His attention is drawn back to Molly as she glances at her fingers for the fifth time in a minute and he frowns.

'Molly?'

'Yes?'

'Why do you keep looking at your fingers?'

Instead of giving him a strange look as he'd expect from such a question, she just chuckles, the familiar rush of colour spotting her cheeks red and pink.

'Oh, it's nothing.' She tells him. 'I just lost my ring the other day; it was from my granddad. I'm not used to not wearing it.' She looks up and meets Sherlock's gaze. 'You really don't miss anything, do you.' It's a statement, not a question, and he nods. He wonders briefly if she's at all disturbed by his intelligence. He can't decide whether or not he wants her to be. She wouldn't be the first, by any means. At least she hasn't started insulting him; he supposed her open (intentionally or not) adoration is more pleasurable than the usual harsh words and cold stares he gets from people. In fact, he thinks, it's quite a nice change.

He doesn't realise he hasn't looked away from her as he thinks until she looks up at him awkwardly.

'Sherlock?' She says.

'Yes?'

'Could you, uh, stop staring?'

He blinks and looks away. 'Of course. I'm sorry.'

'No, no, it's oka-' Molly starts to do her usual apologising routine before catching herself and falling silent. Sherlock hides the relief in his expression, busying himself with leaning over the corpse once more.

'Nothing more to see, here.' He mutters to himself.

'What was that?' Molly's voice is a little loud for the quiet room and he watches her wince.

'Nothing.' He replied, while wondering how awfully restricting it must be for her to be so self-conscious and anxious all the time. He wonders how she copes – without his confidence (although he knows many people would tell him it's just his lack of caring about other people and their opinions) he thinks he would probably be lost.

He holds in a sigh at the general pitiful state of regular human beings before straightening his coat collar and turning to face Molly.

'Anyway,' he says, 'I have to leave. Thank you for talking to me.'

Molly nods. 'You're welcome.' She says, and although her mouth opens to say more, she closes it again immediately. Sherlock feels an unnecessary burst of irritation as he notes the action. If only she could just think about what was going to come out of her mouth before she said it then she wouldn't need to keep catching herself.

It's this annoyance that makes him sweep out without another word, makes him storm out and hail a taxi before he realises he's in a mood over nothing at all. He growls and puts another nicotine patch on, noting that there are six on his arm.

The cab ride is silent, just the way he likes it, and he thinks about men and missing rings for the majority of it. He spots a newspaper headline as they drive past and he reads it briefly.

"_**London's mystery killer – another murder on the streets."**_

He smiles, then; corners of his lips curving up until they settle in an indecent grin.

'The game is on.'


End file.
